Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story
by vanwright14
Summary: The Inheritance Cycle from Murtagh's perspective. Faithful to Paolini's work and the details that were provided, with the blanks filled in where they needed to be. Murtagh's story starts with a scar, and ends with a dragonback view of Du Weldenvarden.
1. Chapter 1: The Castle in the Spine

**Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Castle in the Spine**

* * *

"I've missed you so much."

The woman smiled and gently stroked his cheek, a light brown lock of hair falling on her padded leather clothes. The two year old shied away from her touch and inched backwards. A pained look briefly crossed the woman's face as she slowly took her hand away. She averted her eyes for a second, gathering her thoughts, before looking at the child once more.

"Your eyes are a beautiful shade grey. I'm glad they're the same color."

The boy looked at the woman quizzically, unsure how to respond to the compliment. Did she mean she was glad his eyes weren't different, like those of the man he knew as his father? After a moment of hesitation, he flashed her a crooked smile. The woman smiled again. This time, her smile reached her eyes.

"You're a very handsome little man. Do you remember me?" she asked, almost hopefully. "I come see you whenever I can, but the last time I came, you were much smaller."

The boy, taking his knees to his chin, hugged his legs and thought hard. Something about the woman's face was familiar, but he could not remember her name. The only person he really knew was Miss Mariane, the servant who had been in charge of him ever since he could remember. Miss Mariane was not very nice. He spent most of his days wandering around the castle alone, relieving his boredom with games fueled by his imagination. Unable to remember the woman's name and afraid of her reaction, the boy guiltily shook his head.

"I thought as much." He was surprised to see that the woman did not look angry. "It's okay that you don't remember." She smiled reassuringly and gently took the boy's hand. The boy trembled slightly, but did not pull his hand away.

"My name is Selena, and I am your mother. If it was up to me, you would be with me all the time. Sadly, I'm not often allowed to see you."

The boy frowned and searched the woman's face. Her hair was much lighter than his, and her eyes were brown.

"But… I don't look like you," he replied, disappointed.

The woman smiled warily. "I know. You look like Morzan, but you are not like him. I hope that when you grow older, you remember that."

The boy looked down to the floor and bit his lower lip at the sound of his father's name. He did not see his father often, but the man inspired fear wherever he went. The boy often hid when Morzan was around: the man liked to kick him or yell at him whenever he was in the vicinity. Even the servants made themselves scarce when their master was around. The boy looked at the woman again with a small pang of recognition.

"You sang me lullabies!"

This time, the woman beamed. She hugged the boy tightly. Suddenly, the door burst open. The boy stood up hastily. The woman stood as well, frowning.

"Time's up. The King is waiting to finalize the details of your next mission." The voice came from a tall, broad-shouldered man suited in shiny armor, his face partially hidden by the hallway's darkness. Although his deep voice was even and controlled, the boy cringed and backed towards the wall. _Morzan._ The man noticed the young boy looking at him and stared back. Morzan's mismatched eyes pierced into his and the boy let out a small moan as a sharp pain entered his skull.

"Please stop," the woman said sternly, looking at Morzan. A hurt expression crossed her face, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. The boy steadied his breath as the sharp pain in his head receded. The woman walked towards the man confidently. Before following him out of the door, she turned back, her eyes now glistening with tears.

"I love you, Murtagh. I will come back soon," she whispered. "Be strong."


	2. Chapter 2: Zar'roc

**Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Zar'roc**

* * *

The three year old boy woke with a start as a loud noise erupted from the hallway. Yawning, he turned back to his side and pulled the thick blanket to his chin, closing his eyes. Loud noises echoed through the hall again. Now awake, Murtagh sat up, his short legs dangling off the side of the bed. He glanced out the window, but saw nothing but darkness. Who was out and about at this time of the night? The servants usually retreated to their quarters once he was put to bed. He smiled, pulled on the leggings he had worn the previous day and set out to investigate the noise, hoping that his mother had come to take him away. It had been months since he had last seen her. Still groggy with sleep, he walked barefooted on the cold stone floor towards the light coming from the Great Hall. Stepping into the torch light, he immediately regretted his decision.

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the room. Near the dais stood Morzan, his raven black hair disheveled and most of his shiny armor on the ground. The man looked half-crazed, swaying as he stood with his crimson sword in one hand and a dark green bottle in the other. Broken pieces of glass littered the floor of the dais. Murtagh backed towards the brick wall, hoping to get away unnoticed. As he took a second step back, his foot hit a table leg and a vase came crashing down to the floor.

Morzan immediately turned back, cursing. He threw the green bottle forcefully, narrowly missing Murtagh's head. The green glass exploded on the wall and clinked as it fell on the broken pieces of vase.

"Well look who it is. My _son_." Morzan laughed oddly, as though he was in pain. "Come to see the show?" Murtagh cringed as Morzan stumbled closer.

"A liability, that's what you are. Worse than useless. A waste of space, and a waste of wards," mumbled Morzan hatefully. "The only reason you're alive is because the King thought I would love you. As if anybody could." He laughed again, taking a swig out of one of the many bottles strewn around the Great Hall. "What do you have to say to that?"

Murtagh stared at Morzan wide-eyed, silent. The man frowned and became oddly still.

"I asked you a question. ANSWER ME!" Morzan's voice boomed through the hall, unnaturally loud. The broken pieces of glass rattled on the floor.

Murtagh swallowed hard, his throat dry. "M-mother loves me. She told me so," he whispered.

Morzan laughed even louder, Zar'roc's blade glistening in the torch light. "You stupid, stupid boy. You're probably the reason she left. No one can seem to find her." The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. "Get out of my face." Morzan's voice had become even and calm. Oddly, the calm voice evoked more fear in the boy than the shouts had.

Murtagh turned back quickly and started to run to the entrance. He had not quite reached it when a rustling sound ripped through the air behind him. A blunt object struck his back and he screamed as his breath was driven out of him. Falling to his knees, he swayed, his eyes blurry. He wondered what Morzan had thrown at him when he spotted Zar'roc on the ground beside him, the crimson blade looking liquid. Feeling weak, he dimly realized he could taste iron. He started to feel a sharp, throbbing pain in his back and fell forward to his stomach. Murtagh attempted to turn to his side, but his arm trembled so much that he quickly slumped back to the floor, his dark brown locks of hair sticking to his wet forehead and obscuring his vision further. His vision still blurry, he barely noticed Morzan crouching next to him, picking up Zar'roc and wiping the blade on his linen under-shirt.

"Should've done it years ago," Morzan mumbled as he stood up. His footsteps were soon out of earshot.

Murtagh lay still, his cheek on the cool stone. The rest of his body was oddly warm, and he could feel his heartbeat in his back. The pain grew steadily. Salt joined the taste of iron as tears silently mixed with the blood in his mouth. Murtagh unsuccessfully tried to move his fingers. _I'm dying,_ he thought as he numbly stared at the flickering flame of the wall torch, his vision darkening. The boy closed his eyes, and quietly slipping into unconsciousness, he thought no more.

...

He screamed as soon as he regained consciousness. His back was on fire, as though it was being burned with hot blades. He was laying on his stomach on a blood-soaked cot. Hot tears spilled on his face.

"He's awake! You said he would sleep through this!" said an old woman frantically.

"I'm sorry, Janice. I am no trained magician, I can only do so much. Just keep applying the poultice."

The second voice came from a man with a hooked nose and a small, graying beard. Murtagh vaguely remembered having seen the man in the castle gardens, tending to the shrubbery. He let out a moan as the poultice touched his back. His entire body shook violently. The man approached him.

"You will be alright, I promise."

Murtagh was dimly aware of the man putting his hands close to his back, though careful not to touch it. He mumbled incomprehensively: "Letta du blödh, waíse heill. Letta du blödh, waíse heill. Letta du blödh, waíse heill."

The man sighed, seemingly tired, before crouching close to Murtagh's face. He rested his hands on his knees, a blue stone shining on one of his fingers.

"I will take away as much pain as I can. I can repair most of the damage inside your back, but since it was laid open by a Rider's sword, I cannot heal the wound entirely. You are in for a lengthy recovery. Once you have healed, the area around the scar may not regain feeling." The man paused and brushed the hair out of Murtagh's face. "You will not remember this when you wake. It is for the best."

The man rested his ring hand on Murtagh's forehead, and whispered "Vergat du verkr." Immediate relief swept through the boy as his pain receded. Looking strained, the man kept speaking in the strange language.

"Verkat eka, moi thornessa manin. Gánga eom slytha, stydja." The man's face blurred before his eyes, and Murtagh seemed unable to focus on him. The boy sighed and shut his eyes, drifting into a painless sleep.

* * *

 ** _Ancient language to English_**

 _Letta du blödh, waíse heill (Stop the blood, be healed)_

 _Vergat du verkr (Forget the pain)_

 _Verkat eka, moi thornessa manin (Forget me, change this memory)_

 _Gánga eom slytha, stydja (Go to sleep, rest)_


	3. Chapter 3: Orphaned

**Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Orphaned**

* * *

Murtagh spent most of the next five months on his bed. Despite the quick intervention of the healer the night Zar'roc was thrown at him, the wound on his back was slow to heal and still pained him greatly. The first month was by far the worst. Murtagh's wound had initially been cauterized, but his skin had split open the day after the incident. Janice the healer, who had temporarily been granted a room in the castle, had to stitch up his wound at least twice a week, clueless as to why her strongest horse hairs kept breaking. By the time the wound closed up completely three weeks later, Murtagh was still spending most of his days sleeping, unable to do much else. Even slight movements caused the wound to bleed, but the boy no longer cried when his back pained him.

Once he was able to stay awake for more than a handful of hours at a time, a tutor started visiting him to teach him the alphabet and basic mathematics, skills that Murtagh acquired quickly despite his young age. Physical rehabilitation was much more challenging. Four months after the incident, he had to learn how to walk again, his legs weakened and unable to support his weight after his prolonged bed rest. By the fifth month, still weak but able to get around, the three year old boy was growing restless. The wound had finally healed, leaving a large and knotted pink scar stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip.

Murtagh's movements were still slow and awkward, but he was striving for some fresh air after months of confinement. Upon discovering him playing in the garden, Janice had restricted him to his room for the week, worried that he would recklessly hurt himself before he was fully healed. Thus Murtagh sat in his room, his knees drawn to his chin, looking at the setting sun. Once nothing but darkness remained, he lit a candle and sat on his bed, gazing upon a map of Alagaësia that his tutor had given him to study. He traced the Beor Mountains with his finger, wondering if the mountains there were really much bigger than the ones in the Spine. After a while, Murtagh's eyelids grew heavy and he blew out the candle. He ignored the dull ache in his back and promptly fell asleep, hoping he would dream of traveling Alagaësia.

...

Murtagh woke up confused. His bedroom was still dark and it was clearly still night, yet the hallway was lit and he could hear hushed voices. He sat up quietly, trying to rub away the sleep from his eyes. He strained to hear the whispers, but could not make out the words. He stood up and made for the door, but quickly remembered what had happened the last time he had ventured into the hallway in the middle of the night. Instead, he sat on the chest next to the wall. The voices stopped and he heard footsteps getting nearer. Quickly, he jumped on his bed and threw the blankets over himself, pretending to be fast asleep. Seconds later, the door creaked open.

"Collect his things. Should we wake the boy?" said a man whose voice he did not recognize.

"No. The poor child has barely had a childhood, and what is left of it will soon be stripped away. Let us at least let him dream for a few more hours. Once he wakes, everything will different," said a woman. Murtagh recognized her as Janice.

"What do you think will become of us? Now that Morzan is dead and that the boy is leaving, there is no need for us here."

Murtagh struggled to stay still, overwhelmed with a strange mixture of shock, hope, and happiness. His father was dead, and he was leaving the castle? Did this mean his mother had returned and that without Morzan in the way, he could finally go live with her? Where were they going?

The woman sighed. "I suspect we will be dismissed tomorrow. My brother owns a shop in Gil'ead. I may go there to set up a new practice. I have been living in the castle for months and other healers have certainly taken much of my clientele in Dras-Leona by now."

"I have no idea where I will go... maybe I'll head to Gil'ead as well. I've been serving in this castle my whole life," said the man. "But I do hope we won't be sent to Urû'baen with the child," he added fearfully. "The King is no worse than Morzan, but unlike the latter, he does not often leave his palace."

The woman scoffed. "Quit thinking about yourself, Gadriel. Whatever your fate, it will be much easier than the poor boy's. Think about it. In a few hours, he will be told that both of his parents are dead and will be sent off to live with a spiteful King, days away from the only home he has ever known. Our predicament is nothing but petty in comparison."

"You're right, of course. I wouldn't wish his situation on anyone," the man said shamefully, opening up the chest and gathering up the last of Murtagh's possessions in a large bag. Janice and the man left the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

Murtagh sat up, his heart beating fast. His hopes had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. His mother was dead, and he would never see her again. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed hard, his eyes blurry.

Although he did not sleep, dawn came quicker than he had dared hope. A thin, jittery serving girl nervously came to his room to notify him of parents' deaths. Within an hour, Murtagh was settled on a small horse, buried under a thick traveling cloak. A man he recognized as Gadriel tied the small horse to his own and they shortly set off at a trotting pace.

The orphaned boy sat on his horse quietly and did not say a word, despite the man's awkward efforts to make small talk. He glanced back at the Spine and watched his childhood home recede in the horizon. He felt strangely numb.


	4. Chapter 4: Tornac

**Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Tornac**

* * *

Murtagh lurked in the shadow of the hallway, his hood concealing his face. He eyed the kitchen door attentively and counted the serving women as they walked out one by one, holding various dishes. His stomach grumbled as the smell of warm food wafted towards him. When the fifteenth woman was no longer in sight, he darted towards the kitchen door. As soon as the door opened wide enough, he slid behind a chopping table and quickly crawled to the nearest cupboard, cramming himself inside as quietly as possible. Murtagh stifled a groan as he shut the cupboard door in front of him, slamming his knees in the process. He silently cursed at his legs for growing so much in the last months and shifted awkwardly, placing his eye against the crack between two of the boards.

Murtagh stayed in this position, uncomfortable but quiet, for half an hour. Finally, the serving women returned with the original plates, before setting out with the second wave of dishes. The door closed with a clank, and Murtagh smiled, nervous but anxious to fill his stomach. Aware he had little time to get to the food before the cooks and dish washers emerged from the back of the kitchens, he carefully left his hiding place and retrieved a big burlap bag from his cloak. Approaching the table, he examined the contents of the bowls and plates. Murtagh began gathering as many solid items as he could and piled them in his bag, disappointed he wouldn't be able to take any of the soups with him. After a moment of hesitation, he set down the bag and grabbed one of the bowls of stew. The broth was no longer hot, but he slurped it back eagerly, half-heartedly stopping himself before he emptied the bowl. The key to his plans had always been to leave things as undisturbed as possible, leaving no visible traces of his presence. He wiped his mouth and set out to finish his mission, determined to find some jerky and food that would keep well for the rest of the week.

Within minutes, Murtagh had silently left the kitchen, the bulging burlap sack hanging from his shoulder. He drew his hood over his face and walked slowly, looking down, not wanting to draw the attention of anybody who happened to be nearby. However, once he reached the second level, he broke into a run: his bedroom was just around the corner. He yelped in surprise as he was suddenly yanked back, dropping his bag to the floor as he fell. Counting his losses, he tried to scramble back to his feet, but someone roughly drew back his hood before he could flee.

"Ah," said a gruffy voice, "it's you. Well, come on now, get up." A hand grabbed him by the scruff of his cloak, yanking him upright. A middle-aged man stared down at him, a slight smile on his lips despite his frown. Murtagh regained his composure and his heart stopped hammering in his chest as he recognized his weapons instructor, Tornac.

"What did you do that for?" he asked defiantly, jutting out his chin.

Tornac laughed. "Only bandits and thieves run about in castles like lunatics. It seems I'm not wrong," he added, eyeing the burlap bag. Murtagh stayed still as Tornac picked up the bag and sifted through the contents. He looked back at Murtagh with a look of disapproval, but the boy only stared back at him, crossing his arms.

"I don't have to explain myself," he stated simply.

The man sighed. "You don't have to, but I'd like you to. You know thievery is wrong. You know that the leftovers from feasts go to the serving women, the cooks, and their families. Why did you take what's not yours?"

Murtagh shifted and stared at the floor. He quickly gathered himself and looked at Tornac determinedly again. "They forget to feed me quite often. When they do, the food is usually cold or rotting. I don't like it, and I get hungry." He paused, unsure whether or not to continue. "A few times, I got really sick after eating. I… I don't think it was an accident."

"But their children are probably just as hungry as you are. Does that not matter?"

Murtagh uncrossed his arms, biting his lip. "No stranger's life is more important than my own. I have to take care of myself, and I'll do it by any means possible." His voice was low and controlled, but curiously emotional. He stopped talking, not wanting to appear weak or unsure of himself.

His mentor eyed him curiously. "I'd like you to come to your lesson an hour early tomorrow. I have something to show you." The boy clenched his jaw and stared at him with wide eyes. "Not for a punishment," Tornac quickly said when he recognized fear in the boy's eyes. "Although I will be taking this away, since it wasn't yours to take," he added, hoisting the bag over his shoulder.

The boy's face dropped. "Okay. Tomorrow," he mumbled grimly as he walked away from the man.

"Murtagh?"

He turned back to face Tornac, who opened the bag and handed him a large chicken leg. "No more stealing. I'll be seeing you bright and early."

Murtagh flashed him a small smile and darted down the hall, chicken in hand.

...

Shortly after dawn, Murtagh set out for the courtyard, dragging his feet. While he did not regret stealing the food, an action he still deemed was necessary, he did not necessarily enjoy disappointing the only friend he had. He anxiously wondered what Tornac had in store for him. The man had assured him it wasn't a punishment, but last night's actions were certainly no cause for gifts. As he walked past the orchard's gates, he eyed the red apples enviously, his stomach grumbling. The chicken leg had hardly been fulfilling. He sighed and went on his way. Maybe today a breakfast would be waiting for him in his bedroom after his sparring lessons. Murtagh peered into the small outdoor armory, but was surprised to see Tornac was not there.

"In here!" Tornac's voice came from the nearby stables. The man motioned him forward. Murtagh walked towards him, frowning. A moment later, Tornac emerged with a small foal.

"What do you think?"

Murtagh gave the small horse a look over. Its mane was still short, several shades lighter than the fluffy gray fur covering its body. While it did not look very old, it looked thinner than it should be. The creature's small legs trembled slightly.

"It's weak." He crossed his hands behind his back, looking to Tornac to see if he would prompt him to elaborate. "Why are you showing him to me? I'm twelve, it's still too small and brittle for me to ride it."

"I'm giving it to you. Giving _him_ to you, I should say. His mother died after having him a few days ago, and as you observed, he's weak. He'll need a lot of attention to grow strong. The men are too busy looking after the returning war horses to give much thought to this one."

"I don't want him," Murtagh said quietly.

Tornac seemed taken aback. "Well, I'm not giving you a choice. It'll be good for you to care about something. Besides, you're old enough to handle the responsibility."

The boy averted his eyes, avoiding looking at the foal. It looked defenseless and fragile. "You can't make me care for it."

"Well, no, I can't. But if you don't take care of him, nobody else will, and he'll die." Tornac led the foal back to its stable and stepped back out, looking at Murtagh. "So? What will it be?"

"I guess I'll take care of him. Does it have a name?"

"Not yet. He's your horse now. Any ideas?"

Murtagh paused, then smirked. "What about Tornac?"

His instructor looked at him, seemingly stunned and at a loss for words. A moment later, his booming laughter filled the stables. "I guess that's what I get for making you do anything. Let's go to the armory. I have something you might like a little better."

Murtagh followed Tornac to the armory, curious but careful not to seem eager. Still, when the man presented him with a small yew bow, a grin spread across his face.

"It's old and weathered, but if you've got talent and you like it, I'll get you your own when you turn 16. I thought I could teach you how to hunt. It's a valuable skill, and it'll keep you out of the kitchens." Tornac smiled and slapped Murtagh on the back. "Well, let's get to it!"

Murtagh smiled back despite the slight sting in his back, forgetting about his hunger as he eagerly slung the bow across his shoulder.


End file.
